Entrapment and Other Writings Read Online Free Page A

from Bryan to Luther to the boy Lloyd and back again to Bryan. There was no rope, and his body relaxed in sudden relief. “Careful, nigger,” he cautioned himself, “careful—Heah aint no neck-tie party ay
tall
.”
    He watched the face of the elder Jenks. It was not a hard face. The mouth was not cruel. The eyes were not cold eyes. Indeed there was something so kindly in them that Christopher was reassured. No, old Bryan wasn’t one of them alligator whites. He had a heart in his breast, old Bryan had, not jest a dirty ol’ lump o’ hard coal. This old nigger and his girl weren’t in for anything worse than a healthy scare. Maybe it would do the heifer good. Maybe she’d been too pert. Yaller gals were always pert. It was her own fault, maybe, and after this she’d know better. Had it been Luther or Lloyd who’d sewed her up? Or Bryan himself? Christopher chuckled at the latter possibility. An old fashioned scarin’ party, that’s jest what it was. He’d watch, and maybe pretty soon they’d do something funny. What if it really had been old Bryan? He cupped his big hand over his mouth to stifle the rich black laughter that welled up in his throat.
    Bryan nodded to Luther. Swiftly Luther stepped forward, and Christopher saw the spurt of sudden flame. The old man remained erect, but he had closed his eyes now, and was swaying slightly from side to side. Then he said “Ah—ah,” waved his short arms aimlesslyabout his head for a moment and sagged to the earth like a gunny-sack half full of old potatoes. Luther bent over him and fired again, needlessly. There was no further movement, and Luther rose, stepped one pace backward, and handed the revolver to his father without lifting his eyes from the poor thing on the ground. As though touched with sudden dew in the moonlight the small bent grasses beneath the dead man’s head shimmered and glistened where the damp blood began to reach it.
    Christopher’s muscles were no longer taut and eager. Christopher was afraid. Fear was a hard rude hand about his heart, a strong hand that clutched his heart and reeled it about in his breast and shook it like a toy rattle in his stomach’s pit and crashed it hurtling against his ribs until he was sickened. His teeth began to chatter violently. He dug his great mouth into the warm soil, pressed his thick lips into the black dust, bit into the dirt fiercely, and a thin slow stream of spittle ran weakly forth … then, after a moment, fear ran out of him too—ran weakly forth from his mouth as had the spittle. It was as though the spittle had been his fear. Now he was unafraid: and his head was as clear as though he had just come from under an ice-cold douche. He looked up.
    The girl had turned her head so that he could no longer see her face, but the thumb of her left hand kept twitching, twitching. He remarked that this thumb was double-jointed. Bryan handed the revolver to Lloyd.
    Lloyd’s face had not quite outgrown the soft roundness of babyhood. It was smooth, full, hairless, and very pale in the moonlight. Bryan nodded, Lloyd stepped forward, pressed the cold steel against the naked throat, and Christopher saw the girl’s soft eyes widen in terror unspeakable. He saw the mouth open, knew she must be screaming, yet heard no sound—not even the flat sharp bark of the revolver came to him. He only saw the bright blood come bubbling over the half-parted lips, only saw the velvet eyes cloud in pain. Dumbly she questioned: “Why do you hurt me? What have I done?” Christopher thought those eyes would never close, would never dim,would never lose that look. Even now they were still alive, looking at Lloyd with mild reproach as though, at last, understanding. Luther snatched the gun from his brother’s hand, thrust it deep in the child’s swollen belly, and Christopher saw the finger move; but again no sound came to him. The girl fell face downward, striking the bridge of her nose on the upturned toes of her